


The Kids Are Alright

by Michael_McGruder



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:19:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michael_McGruder/pseuds/Michael_McGruder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dimension 14.635.135.535</p>
<p>A fifteen year old Arnold Rimmer makes a break from his abusive household on Io, finding himself on Earth where he meets the eager and sympathetic lead singer of Smeg and the Heads, Dave Lister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kids Are Alright

This time he was going to kill him. The fight had surprised everyone, but Arthur Rimmer’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic after his second stroke.

They had all been sitting at the dinner table and Margaret Rimmer had asked John about his latest girlfriend. Arnold asked for the salt and his father smashed his cane into Arnold’s face.

On the floor, the 15 year old clutched his broken nose as it gushed blood while his family twittered about in various states of alarm and shock.

“Don’t interrupt your brother!” Arthur Rimmer shouted as he stood over his youngest son.

“You god damn pop eyed son of a whoremonger’s bitch!” Arnold screeched.

The elder Rimmer grabbed the younger one by his skinny throat, dragging him away from the dining room to the living room. Arthur bashed his son’s head against the fireplace mantel and the teen dropped like a stone.

“How dare you speak to me that way!” Arthur spat, beating Arnold with his cane. Arnold lifted his arm to deflect the blows, screaming as it cracked across his wrist, shattering the bones. Unsatisfied with his current tool, Arthur pulled the hot metal poker out of the fire.

“Father, stop!” Frank shouted as John grabbed the older man from behind, dragging him away from his brother. Howard was still too terrified to move past his mother’s side, watching John wrestle the poker out of his father’s hand.

“Get a towel!” Margaret ordered in a panic. “He’s bleeding all over the white carpet!”

 

John drove his brother to the emergency room. Arnold sat in the passenger seat, holding a kerchief gingerly to his nose.

“I can’t go back there,” Arnold said dully.

John had never gotten on very well with his youngest brother, and now, as an adult, he looked back on the years spent bullying Arnold with shame and regret.

John had learned a lot of things since his own escape from that house. He learned the true meaning of duty and honour and courage. Things their father was barren of. John was brought up to believe that only the strong deserved to survive, and the weak were only there to be eaten. So John followed his father’s example and tormented Arnold, when he should have been protecting him.

“I’m making a stop off to Earth, before going back to Europa,” John said. “I was going to rent out my flat in London while on assignment at Moytura. You could stay there for a while, if you wanted.”

“Earth?”

“I know it’s kind of a big displacement, but uncle Frank is there if you needed anything. I know you have issues with him,” John said before Arnold could protest.

“He tried to bugger me at our last family picnic,” Arnold said incredulously.

“Only because he thought you were mother.” This wasn’t really helping. “The point is, you wouldn’t be completely on your own, and I can pull some strings to get you a work visa.”

“You’d do that for me?” Arnold asked, cautious doubt in his voice.

“Yeah, sure, Ace. No big deal.”

 

Arnold left the emergency room with a cast on his right wrist, seven stitches in his head, his swollen nose straightened, and a grape lollie, gotten for him by John as a tease. Arnold sucked on it just to spite him. 

He went to John’s hotel that night. John went back to the house to throw some of Arnold’s clothes in a travel bag. They’d send for whatever else he needed later.

John paused, looking around his brother’s room. It felt strangely unlived in. There were no mementos or personal items, the only books on display were text books. It felt like a guest room. Like a stranger lived here.

In the morning, the pair left for the shuttle port, leaving Io for Earth in a lightspeed zipper.

 

Dave Lister, future Sex God Rock Icon, nuzzled his face against the bottom of Bill Dobbin’s foot as it dangled off the couch.

Dave groggily struggled towards consciousness. It had been a wild night, what he could remember of it. Drinks with the small troupe of groupies their band had collected. Beer and bodily fluids had been shared in great quantities.

He remembered something about a burning hopper taxi, but told himself that had nothing to do with his group.

Dave peeked one eye open, and from where he was laying on the floor he could see Gary “Gazza” Walker handcuffed to a police vehicle bumper, and was wearing the police dog’s tags around his neck.

All in all a pretty average Tuesday night.

Dave groaned as he picked himself up off Dobbin’s floor, and grabbed his strawberry coloured sunglasses. He’d been bouncing back and forth between couch surfing at Dobbin’s place in London, and staying with his gran in Liverpool. Most of their gigs had been in and around London, so most of the time he ended up here.

It was an okay set up. He didn’t have to pay rent, except occasionally buying beer and cigarettes for the house, and his fake ID worked about 40% of the time. The only problem was they shared the house with Dobbin’s sister, who could be a real drag.

Nursing a five alarm hangover, Dave decided to head out before Shelly started to complain that they were still passed out in the living room at three in the afternoon, or that the goat was still in the tub.

 

That night, Smeg and the Heads were playing at the Vomit Comet Tavern, ready to debut what Dave was sure was going to be their smash hit, the song that would define a generation. It was called Om.

While on stage, Dave was slightly thrown off his game when he saw the skinny crypto fascist looking bourgeoisie geek creep timidly into the bar.

The guy was wearing a sweater vest and a bow tie. He was clearly in the wrong neighbourhood, and it looked like someone had let him know it. His face looked like someone had used it to practice zero-gee kick boxing.

 

Arnold had sat around in his brother’s flat in silence for a very long time. The reality of his situation was threatening to overtake him, and he decided, against his better judgment, to go out for a distraction.

The Vomit Comet Tavern didn’t sound very promising, but it was right across the street. Taking the path of least resistance, Arnold went in, hoping at least for a decent sarnie.

Ordering a mineral water at the bar earned him an exasperated look, and sitting at a table, Arnold listened to the band on stage. He couldn’t have ignored them if he tried.

His eardrums were held hostage and brow beaten by the drums and bass guitar. If there was any kind of rhythm or beat, Arnold couldn’t detect it. But the singer’s low repetition of the word “Om” was strangely catchy.

It was the lead singer that Arnold couldn’t his eyes off of. He’d never seen anyone like him before. Glittering and sparkling under the stage lights, giant heart shaped sunglasses, and a jacket collar you could have used to hang glide with. If anyone had dressed that way on Io, they’d have been shot.

A noxious haze of cigarette smoke wafted over Arnold. His nostrils flared in irritation. He looked over at the man in the biker jacket and the skull tattooed on his face.

“Excuse me,” he said to the man. “Excuse me,” he repeated. The man turned slowly and looked down at the skinny teen. “I don’t know if you happened to notice, but this is the non-smoking section.” The man continued to stare. “The smoking section is on the other side of the room.”

The man snubbed out his cigarette on Arnold’s cast and grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him fully off the ground.

“I don’t know how you broke your arm, poes, but I know how you’re gonna break the other one.”

Neither of them noticed the band had finished their set until the singer came up and tapped the tattooed man on the shoulder.

“Hey Francis. This crypto fascist geek giving you trouble?”

“Ja.”

“The guys and I will take him out back and show him how things work around here, yeah?”

“Ja,” he said, dropping Arnold. The glittering singer grabbed the back of Arnold’s jacket, dragging him out the back door.

“Please don’t beat me up,” he cringed pathetically. “You can have all my bus tokens.”

“Relax, guy,” the singer said, grinning. “I’m not gonna hit you. I just saved you from getting ground into dog meat. What’s wrong with you?”

“Pardon?”

“Telling a man who has kill notches in his belt to put out his ciggy?”

“He was sitting in the non-smoking section.”

The singer shook his head. This guy was gonna get himself killed. By the state of him he was well on his way. Ordinarily he might not have bothered, but he felt sorry for the geek.

“What’s your name?”

“Arnold Rimmer.”

“I’m Dave Lister. These are my mates, Gazza and Dobbin. You want to grab a bite with us? You look like you could use a meal or three.”

 

In the diner, Arnold hunched over his food like a starving dog ready to fight off other hungry strays. Dave watched in awe as he finished his third burger.

“Don’t they have food where you come from, Big Man?” Dave asked, slurping his beer milkshake, trying to finish it before the alcohol he poured in it curdled the milk. Arnold looked at him with a slightly dark expression.

“It can be hard to come by.”

“Where you from, anyway? Not from around here.”

“Io. I came down for… work.”

“Work?” Dave asked dubiously. “You left Io and came to Earth for work?”

“Yes.”

“Good luck with that, mate,” he said, shrugging. “Where you staying? I’ll walk you back. It’s not friendly around here after dark.”

 

Dave followed Arnold back to his flat. He whistled appreciatively.

“This is your place?”

“My brother’s. He’s letting me stay here while he’s on Europa.”

“So it’s just you here?” Arnold nodded. It was nice and roomy. A little too clean for Dave to feel completely comfortable in. Not an empty can or crisp packet in sight. He looked out the window at the two pimps on the street having an argument, but he didn’t look too hard. “Would it be cool if I crashed here?”

“Stayed the night?”

“Yeah. Like I said, it’s not friendly around here after dark.” Arnold hedged, and Dave flashed him his most dazzling smile. “I promise you won’t wake up in the bath tub full of ice and two missing kidneys.”

Arnold thought about telling him he’d only find one, but decided it wasn’t entirely relevant.

“Alright,” he said. “Um, you can sleep on the couch, I guess.”

“Brutal,” Dave said, shedding his glam jacket, tossing it on the arm of the couch. Arnold grabbed the top cover from his bed, handing it to Dave. “Cheers, mate. See you in the afternoon.” Arnold laughed, assuming that was a joke.

 

In the morning, Arnold stared down at the thing occupying his couch while he sipped his tea. He considered that this may have been a mistake.

There was glitter everywhere. It was as if a pixie had been mortally wounded, leaving arterial sprays of sparkles in its death throes.

Arnold kicked the couch a few times. Dave continued snoring on. He kicked it harder. Dave blinked awake.

“Whuzzeh?”

“Pardon?”

Dave smacked the cottony foam around his mouth before trying again.

“What time is it?”

“Half nine.”

“Half nine?” Dave didn’t think he’d ever been up at half nine. Had anyone? It was totally unnatural. Arnold could see he was struggling with the concept.

“Do you want some breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, pulling himself into a sitting position.

The pair sat at the small table in the kitchen with tea and coffee. Arnold munched his toast silently, trying to politely ignore the fact that Dave was unabashedly staring at him.

“So what happened to you, mate?”

“Excuse me?”

“You in some kind of accident or something? You look totally shady.”

“No, I wasn’t. It doesn’t matter,” Arnold said stiffly. Dave grinned.

“You did get your arse kicked, didn’t you?” Arnold glared at him petulantly. “You go around town dressed like your mum bought all your casual clothes, it’s no wonder!”

“There’s nothing wrong with my casual clothes,” he said defensively.

“You look like a geography teacher.” Before Arnold could get in his angry retort, Dave held up his hands. “Alright, calm down. Look, you’re gonna be staying here a while, yeah? If you don’t want to get stuffed in a luggage locker, you’ll need some new threads.”

“I suppose you’d know all about not standing out, looking like you ran through Elton John’s closet with a tube of crazy glue.”

“Hey, no one can match me style, so don’t worry about keeping up with all this,” he said, pointing to his shimmering flair.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Helping me.” Dave blinked a few times, perplexed by the question. He shrugged.

“I dunno. I just like strays, I guess.”

“Is that what I am?”

“Look, man, don’t worry about it, okay? Maybe someday you can return the favor?”

 

Dave dragged Arnold around to all the grungy charity shops where he got all his clothes.

“Department stores are a bunch of crypto fascist bourgeoisie crap,” Dave said. Arnold wasn’t entirely sure what that was supposed to mean, and he had a feeling Dave didn’t either, but he was sure he was having fun dressing him up.

Arnold stood in front of a mirror wearing a leather biker jacket with more spikes on it than an iron maiden. He frowned.

“You look brutally sick,” Dave laughed.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah man, killer.” Arnold shrugged off the jacket, shaking his head.

“I can’t wear this, it’s ridiculous.”

“What about this, eh?” How shui is this?” Dave pointed to a gold bomber jacket on the rack.

“Are you kidding?” Arnold barked. “I’d look like a baked potato.” He paused, looking at the jacket beside it. A regular old brown bomber.

Eventually Arnold bought the brown jacket and a pair of aviator sun glasses. He smiled, and did feel slightly more confident, though he couldn’t wear the glasses on his broken nose.

Dave pulled off Arnold’s bow tie, stuffing it in his front pocket, and pulled open his collar button.

“There! You look stunning.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, very RAF chic. I’d shag you!”

“Excuse me?”

“Come to this party tonight. Meet some people. It’ll be a blast.”

“I don’t know,” Arnold said. He hated parties. He didn’t know what you were supposed to do, and usually ended up sitting on the couch, sipping a cola while two or more people were making out next to him.

“Come on, don’t worry. Nobody knows how to party like Dave Lister. Trust me.”


End file.
